Chapter Ten: His Legend Still Echoes Through the Rivers and Lakes

Banard was a city built around its mage academy, with mages and mage apprentices as its core competitive advantage, sustaining a thriving commodity economy. The mages provided magical items for merchants to sell, while merchants supplied the resources the mages needed. Alongside Gors Velen and Novigrad, it was one of the three great distribution centers for magical artifacts.

Unlike Aed Carle, its city walls were not towering, but it had no need for lofty fortifications—the mages themselves were the city’s protectors.

It was nearly noon when they paid the fee to enter the city. The young man produced a pair of sunglasses he had bought in the Aed Carle market and handed them to Lambert, urging him to put them on, then wrapped the silver sword in cloth and secured it to the horse.

Thus, the two travel-worn adventurers passed along the streets without attracting any suspicious glances or harassment, and soon secured lodgings at the Limping Hank Tavern.

What a miserable age—everywhere you went, there seemed to be someone limping.

They ordered food and devoured it hunched over the table in their room, consuming two whole herb-roasted chickens, a large bowl of mashed potatoes, a bottle of wine, and a jug of milk.

Sated at last, Lambert patted his stomach, “Shall we head straight to the Mage Academy?”

Victor wrung out two towels, tossed one onto the witcher’s face, and wiped his own clean with the other.

“Let’s go!” Soon he would know if his dream could become reality.

They chose to walk rather than ride. As they wove through the city’s streets and alleys, the calls of merchants hawking their goods drifted through the air. Lambert took it all in stride, but Victor listened with barely concealed delight.

“Come see, come see—the incredible magic lock, which only a secret phrase can open!”

“My esteemed lady, won’t you look at my wares?”

“Sir, have you heard of the Eternal Fire?”

“Come, come! Only three magic boxes that play music by themselves left!”

“Don’t hesitate—buy now! North of the Pontar, you won’t find a better price!”

Some sales pitches, it seemed, could traverse time and space.

Banard Mage Academy stood in the city center. Though styled an academy of magic, it was more a comprehensive university, offering instruction in clerical work, mathematics, law, engineering, and other disciplines. A red-brick wall encircled its grounds, and within rose several Gothic buildings. From the gate, the view was as grand as the palace complexes of Keadwen seen from afar in Aed Carle.

“I’ll see you this far. Go on alone from here. Mages and witchers seldom see eye to eye; I’d best not go in.” Lambert stopped at the edge of the campus, the magical wards at the entrance making the Wolf School medallion on his chest quiver ceaselessly.

Victor was about to reply when, unexpectedly, a voice interrupted.

“By the gods of magic! Look what I see—a witcher!” The speaker wore a purple velvet doublet cinched at the waist, draped with a short jacket trimmed in sable. Seated atop his horse, he stared at the Wolf School medallion vibrating on Lambert’s chest.

He glanced at Victor with casual indifference. “And his apprentice.”

Lambert assumed his standard scowl and made no reply.

To their surprise, the mage ignored Lambert’s obvious displeasure, dismounted with slow, aristocratic grace, and introduced himself. “Greetings, gentlemen. I am Master Dorregaray—a mage.”

Such an introduction could not go unacknowledged; in Banard, discourtesy toward a mage would surely bring consequences.

So the witcher shrugged. “Master Lambert, witcher.”

The boy, a little embarrassed, followed suit. “Master Victor, alchemist.”

Dorregaray seemed to appreciate the understated mockery, laughing aloud and even nodding to Victor in apology for his earlier mistake.

He said, “Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, was my friend. May he rest in peace.”

“May he rest in peace,” Lambert and Victor replied in unison.

The mage continued, “I owe him a debt.

So, Witcher Lambert of the Wolf School, and...alchemist—what brings you to Banard? I believe I may be of help.” The mage tried to infuse his words with warmth, but his slightly raised chin and proud tone betrayed his lack of practice in such matters.

Lambert glanced at Victor, understanding his intent. “I’m here with Victor. He wishes to become a mage,” he said, and after a moment added, “He was well acquainted with the White Wolf, too.”

At this, the archmage’s smile turned curious. “Is that so? Aspiring to be a mage. Very well, both of you come with me!”

He did not remount, but led his horse through the gate, striding straight toward the tallest mage’s tower at the heart of the campus.

At first, the two travelers noticed nothing unusual, but soon, as they walked, students instinctively stepped aside to make way and bowed in greeting. Even a fool could sense something was amiss.

“Sir, might I ask your position at the academy?” Victor inquired respectfully as he drew closer, quietly switching to a more formal address.

The archmage’s smile grew. “Archmage Dorregaray—head of Banard Academy. I took office after the coup on Thanedd Island—nearly two years ago now. You didn’t know that?”

It was mortifying, but Victor truly hadn’t known. He hadn’t expected to meet anyone important, merely hoped to take the entrance exam; if he proved talented enough to enroll, he’d learn what he needed to know.

Who would have thought the legacy of the White Wolf would run so deep as to make the head of the Mage Academy dismount and personally escort them inside?

Sensing the boy’s embarrassment, the mage let the matter drop and led them to the mage tower. With a wave of his hand, the doors swung open and all three stepped inside.

“Mage, sorcerer, warlock—different names for the same kind of person: wielders of chaotic energy.

Air, fire, earth, water—can you sense any of these elements? Or are you a magical source yourself, showing signs of magical frenzy?”

Dorregaray invited them to sit in the lounge, conjured a mandrake vodka for Lambert and a glass of milk for Victor, and settled in to talk—then posed the question that made Victor freeze with embarrassment.

The boy could only answer stiffly, “I’m sorry, I can’t sense anything, nor have I ever suffered magical frenzy. I just can’t accept that I might have no talent, so I wanted to test myself.”

Even the archmage seemed at a loss for words at this answer.

After a moment’s silence, he waved open a cabinet, and several instruments floated out. “Let us test you, then.”

Some time later...

“I’m sorry. Regrettably, you have no aptitude to become a mage.” The archmage, immaculate in his attire, donned a mask of professional regret, his mustache twitching as if he truly felt disappointed.

In truth, he was indeed somewhat disappointed and disgruntled. He had hoped to repay Geralt’s aid during the Thanedd coup, only to find two young men come to make a mockery of things...

No, they had only wanted to test their potential—it was his own misplaced expectations that led to the letdown.

With that realization, the headmaster felt his calm return. “Although you cannot become a mage, Banard’s humanities faculty is among the continent’s finest. Should you wish to become a scribe or a lawyer, I can write a letter of recommendation for your admission.”

With the mage’s gentle words, Victor’s dream ended—without even a glimmer of hope for reversal.

“Understand this: the Mage Academy never turns away a child with talent. That also means we cannot accept a child without it.

Victor, you show not the slightest trace of magical flow. You are, in every respect, an ordinary person.”